Dreams and Ashes
by Ophelia Lake
Summary: Mary was dead and John couldn't breathe.


AN I: I own nothing other than the mistakes. I know I'm supposed to be writing my other stories but this plot bunny wouldn't leave me alone. Good thing it is just a one shot. I'm working on them I promise. Now, on to the story…

Mary was dead.

The pain was vicious, always finding new trenches to weave in and out, striking into John the moment he took a full breath, delving into muscle, sifting between bones. It was a living, breathing, visceral thing. It never left, it never stopped, it was relentless, unyielding.

Oh God, Mary was dead.

And John was alone.

And Mary was…

He slammed the tumbler of whisky back, feeling the burn slide comfortably down his throat, wishing it was _her_ full bodied laugh he could hear in the distance. And that it was _her _subtle perfume lingering amidst the stale smoke and musky sweat. But it wasn't.

Sometimes, it all became too much and John needed release, needed to bury himself into anything other than the hunt, and the knowledge that Mary's sons were in crappy motels, eating shitty food, and sleeping with guns under their pillows. Most days it was fine, Dean and Sam were turning out exactly how he trained them to be, how they needed to be to survive.

And that was what mattered, all that mattered. They had to live, survive, and be strong and hard.

But other times Dean would look at him, Mary's eyes shining out from his freckled face. And the guilt would rear up, fighting with the pain and loneliness for dominance. Sam would question something _why's the sky blue_ and Mary would sound so clear in his tone. John knew Mary would hate the way he was raising them, her babies, _their babies._

But Mary was dead.

And John was alone.

He'd left them alone tonight. He knew they were safe because he'd put the wards up and laid the salt. Dean was armed, Sam sleeping. John had needed to get out of there. Mary's ghost was suffocating him, whispering over his skin, taunting, teasing, reminding him of everything that yellow eyed bastard had taken, all that he'd lost.

Sam had wanted a bedtime story, Dr. Seuss or something or another, he'd tried to crawl in John's lap. And suddenly John couldn't breathe. He'd set Sam down, ignoring the startled yelp which usually preceded crocodile tears, turned away from Dean's accusing eyes, and left. He'd go back; he knew he would, when he could think again, breathe again.

Because it didn't matter how many bedtime stories he read, or how much he learned to breathe alone; Mary was still dead.

It was the utter desolate and stark desperation which had led him to the current hole in the wall dive he was sitting in. His empty shot glasses sat in front of him, turned over, all in a row. There was a girl a few stools down, who had been eyeing John appreciatively. She was the exact antithesis of Mary, short stature, raven locks, dark almond shaped eyes. John knew with her he could forget for just a moment, losing himself in the touch and taste of supple skin.

After paying his tab, John stood up and ambled over. It was surprisingly easy to get her into the back room. Never the impala, Mary had loved him in the impala, and it held too many precious memories. The girl, Lucy, Laura, Lily, something with an L, had followed him of her own volition, her brightly colored manicured hand clasped trustingly in his. Had John not had a certain goal in mind, he had half a mind to warn her about the stupidity of trusting strangers; but she was in the same place he was, wanting the same things.

He would be gentle, but he couldn't, wouldn't make_ love; _that had been for Mary.

Mary was dead.

But he could make it good for them both. John took all the single minded procession that made him a phenomenal hunter and turned it into losing himself in the girl in his arms. She was coming apart, all breathy sighs and full throated moans. Her skin was soft; he knew she'd probably bruise from where he held her against the wall.

As they finished, both exploding together, John closed his eyes; and just for one pained moment he pictured his sweet Mary underneath him.

Until she moved and the dream faded away, reality rushed back and John forced himself not to cringe. He walked her to her car. She left with a smile on her face and her number on a cocktail napkin hastily shoved into John's hand. He looked at it, white against the darkness, and watched as it floated aimlessly to the ground.

He'd never call.

As he drove back to the motel, he knew he smelled like smoke, whisky, and sex, despite having tried to clean up the best he could. The guilt was swelling now, rising like fuel on a fire, burning hot and insistent.

He'd just cheated on Mary.

But Mary was dead.

He jerked the wheel and slammed the breaks pulling off on the side of the road, ignoring the horns of the enraged drivers skirting around him. John threw open the door and fell to his knees, barely making it out of the car before he was throwing up in the gravel. Finished, he climbed back into the impala on shaky legs, wiping a tremulous hand across his mouth.

He was alone and Mary was dead.

Lowering his head to the steering wheel, John wept.

AN II: Please review. This is a little different from what I normally write and I'd love to hear your thoughts. Thank you for taking the time to read my story.


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